


go start a fire, get close to the gasoline

by notthebigspoon



Series: neon ballroom [1]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:19:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthebigspoon/pseuds/notthebigspoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hold this.”</p><p>	“Y'know, when people say that, it's usually a sign that they're doing something they shouldn't be doing.”</p><p>	“Alright, you caught me. I have been caught. Now hold this.”</p><p>Title taken from Lacerated by Shinedown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	go start a fire, get close to the gasoline

“Hold this.”

“Y'know, when people say that, it's usually a sign that they're doing something they shouldn't be doing.”

“Alright, you caught me. I have been caught. Now hold this.”

Buster shouldn't do this. His conscience keeps telling him that and yet he's still taking the bags that Pagan is handing him and following him up the stairwell of the team hotel. It's odd. He never pegged Pagan for the buck the rules type. Then again, Buster doesn't ever buck the rules either. Maybe this is a sign that it's time he started.

Buster doesn't have a hard life by any means. He's got beautiful kids and a wonderful wife, but he isn't happy. He doesn't even know why. All he knows is that he should be and he isn't and on top of being unhappy, he feels guilty as hell. One time, he'll forget the rules. One time, he'll do something that he shouldn't do. When he reaches the roof top exit and shoulders through the door with Pagan, he's already smiling.

Pagan walks them to the edge overlooking a side street. They'd been among the first to leave and there's no sign of their other teammates yet. Judging by the sloshing sounds coming from the bags, Buster's pretty sure he knows what they're about to do. He meets Pagan's eyes and for the first time in weeks, he really feels like he's living in a technicolor world instead of a dark black and white.

He doesn't wait for instructions, just puts the bags down and starts lifting out the handfuls of water balloons, lining them up along the edge of the roof. They're a multitude of colors. Buster arranges his alphabetically. Pagan appears to have a system of his own. When each of them are satisfied with how they're armed, they lean against the ledge, hands braced on either side of their balloons, and wait.

Pagan looks intense, more so than Buster thinks a person involved with this task should be. But there's an impudent turn to the corners of his mouth and he's humming a familiar tune that, while Buster can't place, has him conditioned into grinning. That, or he's still experiencing a rush from the misbehavior. He doesn't care. He's happy right now.

“Three o'clock.” Pagan hisses. Buster's head whips to his right. Scutaro and Blanco are walking along the sidewalk together, Blanco's hands waving through the air as he speaks.

They both grab a balloon and lean over the edge, calculating the best time to drop. They nod at each other and let go. Buster misses Blanco but Pagan's balloon nails Scutaro's shoulder, splattering the both of them. There's an expletive and they both look up. Buster and Pagan drop to the roof top. Neither one of them contains their laughter very well. Buster resorts to pressing his hand over his own mouth as he rolls to his knees and pushes up, peeking over the edge. Scutaro and Blanco are disappearing around the corner, still audibly swearing.

He glances over his shoulder to find Pagan double checking the rooftop door, ensuring that it's blocked and they can't be reached. He sprints back to Buster's side and resumes his post over the balloons as they wait for their next target.

They hit their teammates sporadically, picking them off here and there before dropping out of sight. Midway through the attacks, Pagan produces a bottle of whiskey that they start passing back and forth. By the time they've ran out of teammates to get and grown bored of the random pedestrians, they're both more than a little buzzed and well on their way to drunk. They sit shoulder to shoulder, back against the ledge with their legs outstretched. Buster takes a long slug of whiskey before passing the bottle. He's long past wincing, instead just lazily rolling his head to the side and smiling at Pagan.

“Why the hell did we do that?”

“Because we could.” Pagan answers simply, shrugging and bumping their shoulder together. “Sometimes that is reason enough. Now you, I know why you did it.”

“Oh yeah? Why?”

“Because you are bored, unhappy and ready for a change.”

Buster sputters and gives him a disbelieving look. Pagan pats his leg, drinking before continuing.

“I'm good at reading people. You, your smile does not reach your eyes these days.”

Buster bites his lip, thinks as much as his whiskey fogged brain will allow him to before finally saying, voice weak and small, “I have everything I thought I wanted. Why am I not happy?”

“Having everything we want, sometimes it is not good for us.” Pagan shrugs. “Maybe there's something missing. Something that you did not know you wanted.”

When everything is said and done, Buster doesn't think he's a repressed person. Reserved sometimes but not repressed. He can't think of anything he wants that he doesn't have or couldn't get if he wanted to. He turns his head to tell Pagan that. The words die on his lips when Pagan leans in and presses their lips together, his hand still resting on Buster's leg.

It's not like the movies or a novel. Buster doesn't freeze. He sways into it, returning the kiss and touching Pagan in turn, running his hand up the man's arm. He grips Pagan's shoulder, rubs it before cupping the side of his neck, almost as if he has to feel his way through it like a blind man. In a way, Buster is blind. He's never done this before. He doesn't have a frame of reference for the situation.

It doesn't seem to matter though. It feels natural, like a relief. Like it's something that he didn't even know he needed. A realization hits him, just what he's been missing and wanting, but he doesn't think very much on it. He can deal with what he's apparently been hiding from himself later. For now, this is all that he wants.

He ends up in Pagan's lap, knees on either side of the man's hips, hands planted on Pagan's shoulders. Pagan's hands rub up and down Buster's thighs in a matter that's partially soothing but mostly a huge turn on. One of Pagan's hands slips around, presses against the small of Buster's back before traveling up his spine. By the time his hand cups the back of Buster's neck and he's drawing Buster in for a kiss, Buster is harder than he's ever been in his life and his whole body is shaking.

Pagan's kiss turns to tongue and teeth before breaking away. He bites Buster's jaw, his neck and then his earlobe, tugging it before whispering against Buster's ear.

“Let me touch you.”

Buster whimpers and then nods before helping Pagan undo his jeans with trembling hands, lifting onto his knees and shoving his pants down the slightest bit. The night air hits his bare skin and he feels ridiculous for all of two seconds before Pagan's hand is closing around him. He whines and his hips jerk. Pagan's laugh is warm against Buster's neck, his hand moving in slow strokes that are too much and not enough all at once.

He doesn't really know what he's doing when he opens Pagan's pants. It's like he's functioning on autopilot, licking his palm like Pagan had done. He knows his touch is awkward, clumsy, but Pagan arches underneath him like a bowstring, growling something Buster doesn't understand before he's biting Buster's jaw again.

They find a rhythm, working against each other as their bodies move closer. Buster tenses against Pagan as he comes, kissing him hard. He feels his lip splitting, tastes blood as his body shakes. He doesn't know how he keeps his rhythm with his hand. Maybe it's just that he doesn't want this to be over. When Pagan arches underneath him again, he's almost disappointed, because that means the end. He expects the hot wetness against his hand. He doesn't expect to hear his name falling from Pagan's lips. And it isn't Posey, either. It's Buster, guttural and reverent and desperate like this was something Pagan has wanted very much for a very long time.

The idea of something like that hits Buster like a thunder bolt. He slumps against Pagan's chest, panting but not taking the time to breathe, choosing instead to kiss Pagan again, even more desperately than before. When he can finally make himself stop, he's dizzy and his vision is dotted out with stars.

Pagan's hand smooths over Buster's hair and then his cheek before falling aside. He sighs quietly. Buster is afraid, ludicrously so since he doesn't even know what this is or what he really wants, that Pagan is about to send him on his way. He doesn't expect the gentle kiss to his lips.

“My room... maybe we should go there.” Pagan murmurs, quiet and hopeful. His smile when Buster nods and whispers please is blinding.


End file.
